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there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
but in his motion like an angel sings,
still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins:
such harmony is in immortal souls;
but whilst this muddy vesture of decay
doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.—
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;
with sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
and draw her home with music.

Jes. I am never merry, when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
for do but note a wild and wanton herd,
or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
which is the hot condition of their blood;

if they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
or any air of music touch their ears,

you shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,

by the sweet power of music: therefore, the poet
did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
but music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
the motions of his spirit are dull as night,
and his affections dark as Erebus:

let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music.


HEN said he thus: "O paleis desolate,


O house of houses, whilom best yhight,
O paleis empty and disconsolate,

O thou lanterne, of which queint is the light,
O paleise whilom day, that now art night,
wel oughtest thou to fall, and I to die,
sens she is went, that wont was us to gie.

"O paleis whilom crowne of houses all,
enlumined with Sunne of alle blisse,

O ring, of which the rubie is out fall,

O cause of wo, that cause hast ben of blisse:
yet sens I may no bet, fain would I kisse
thy colde doores, durst I for this rout,

and farewel shrine of which the saint is out."

Therewith he cast on Pandarus his eie,
with changed face, and pitous to behold,
and whan he might his time aright aspie,
aie as he rode, to Pandarus he told
his new sorow, and eke his joyes old.
So pitously, and with so deed an hew,
that every wight might on his sorow rew.

Fro thence-forth he rideth up and doune,
and every thing came him to remembraunce,
as he rode forth by the places of the toune,
in which he whilom had all his pleasaunce:
"Lo, yonder saw I mine owne lady daunce,
and in that temple with her eien clere,
me caught first my right lady dere.

"And yonder have I herde full lustily
my dere herte laugh, and yonder play
saw I her ones eke ful blisfully,
and yonder ones to me gan she say
'now good sweete love me well I pray,'
and yonde so goodly gan she me behold,
that to the death mine herte is to her hold."




'OR what is glory but the blaze of fame,


the people's praise, if always praise unmixed?

and what the people but a herd confused,

a miscellaneous rabble, who extol

things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise?

They praise and they admire they know not what, and know not whom, but as one leads the other.

And what delight to be by such extolled,

to live upon their tongues and be their talk,

of whom to be dispraised were no small praise,


his lot who dares be singularly good.
The intelligent among them and the wise
are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.-
They err, who count it glorious to subdue
by conquest far and wide, to over-run
large countries, and in field great battles win,
great cities by assault. What do these worthies,
but rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave,
peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,
made captive, yet deserving freedom more
than those their conquerors? who leave behind
nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove,
and all the flourishing works of peace destroy;
then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
great Benefactors of mankind, Deliverers,
worshipped with temple, priest and sacrifice.
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
till conqueror Death discover them scarce men,
rolling in brutish vices and deformed,

violent or shameful death their due reward.
But if there be in glory aught of good,

it may by means far different be attained,
without ambition, war, or violence;

by deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
by patience, temperance.




LL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!"

for the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !
and the grave is not its goal;
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
is our destined end or way;
but to act, that each to-morrow
finds us farther than to-day.



Art is long, and time is fleeting,

and our hearts, though stout and brave,
still, like muffled drums, are beating
funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
in the bivouac of life,

be not like dumb, driven cattle!
be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
let the dead Past bury its dead!
act,—act in the living Present!
heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
we can make our lives sublime,
and, departing, leave behind us
footprints on the sands of time;-
footprints, that perhaps another,
sailing o'er life's solemn main,
a forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
with a heart for any fate;
still achieving, still pursuing,
learn to labour and to wait.



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GOD! methinks it were a happy life,

to be no better than a homely swain;
to sit upon a hill, as I do now,

to carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
thereby to see the minutes how they run,—
how many make the hour full complete,
how many hours bring about the day;
how many days will finish up the year,

how many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the times,—

so many hours must I tend my flock;

so many hours must I take my rest;


so many hours must I contemplate;
so many hours must I sport myself;

so many days my ewes have been with young;
so many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
so many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
so minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
pass'd over to the end they were created,
would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade

to shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

to kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
his cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
his wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
all which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

is far beyond a prince's delicates,
his viands sparkling in a golden cup,
his body couchéd in a curious bed,

when care, mistrust and treason waits on him.



IPPOLYTUS a iolly huntsman was,

woming bore:

he all his peeres in beauty did surpas:
but ladies love, as losse of time, forbore:
his wanton stepdame loved him the more:
but when she saw her offred sweets refused
her love she turned to hate and him before
his father fierce of treason false accus'd,
and with her gealous termes his open eares abusd;
Who, all in rage, his seagod syre besought

some cursed vengeaunce on his sonne to cast:

from surging gulf two monsters streight were brought;
with dread whereof his chacing steedes aghast
both charett swifte and huntsman overcast.
His goodly corps, on ragged cliffs yrent,
was quite dismemberd, and his members chast
scattered on every mountaine as he went,
that of Hippolytus was lefte no moniment.

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